


All Roads Lead

by Novocaine



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU sort of yeah, I don't really have an explanation for this, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novocaine/pseuds/Novocaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Some are born to rule and some are born to serve, and there is no shame in that; for who is above he who serves the King but the King himself?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Roads Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the prompt of tumblr user [naratorsnotebook](http://naratorsnotebook.tumblr.com/):
> 
> "Belladonna Took always taught her son that the sacred duty of the Took Clan is to guide lost and dishonored kings to reclaim their thrones; she also taught him how to slay dragons."
> 
> I didn't follow the prompt completely, unfortunately, as I meant to do this months ago.

_Some are born to rule and some are born to serve, and there is no shame in that; for who is above he who serves the King but the King himself?_

Bilbo is a child, just barely toddling and only just beginning to make out the words wrapped around the familiar voices of his parents, his mothers, especially.  His father is not so much cold as he is distant and young Bilbo’s instincts have honed themselves, even in his tender age, to seek out the warmth and reassurance of his mother whenever possible.  She is warm and bright and though he doesn’t know it yet, gentle fingers and the warm scent of fresh tilled earth and early rain are what he will associate with love until the end of his days.

_Kings can become lost too, sweetheart.  Sometimes they lose their way and the road back home is perilous and fraught with obstacles._

He grows older and learns his letters, basic mathematics and, at his father’s mandate, studies “The Complete and Respectable History of The Shire.”  He prefers to fulfill his educational requirements at his mother’s knee, and she not only feeds his curiosity, but sustains his vivid imagination with great tales of far off lands and magnificent, valiant kings.  With her words, she shapes a world where good always triumphs and evil never lasts.  They enthrall him, ensnare his thoughts and his dreams are filled with the sounds of battle and great cries of victory. 

Not even the disapproving stares of his stoic father can dampen his mood once he’s heard one of her tales, and when his father insists he stops “wasting time and focus on his studies,” he works with a new found fervor, strengthened by the idea that one day, perhaps, if he is bright enough and strong enough and clever enough, he too can have an adventure of his own.  When he is not hard at work with the academic tasks his father demands of him, he learns the language of the Elves and the history of Men and the maps of Middle-Earth.  He learns of roads and passage ways and trails that can be only be found when the right stars are aligned or the sun is in just the right position.

_One day, a King will come seeking your aid.  He will knock right on that door of ours, he will! He’ll need help finding his way back home.  And you’ll have to show him the way._

One day, his mother shows him a small wooden she keeps hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the room she shares with his father (it is a room far colder than the rest of the house and he cannot shake the feeling that sorrow lives there, in every dark corner and every quiet space. Bilbo won’t understand why until he is well into manhood). 

The box is filled with maps, compasses, something that might be the broken end of a spear or sword and other such eclectic trinkets.  When he asks her where on earth she’s acquired such treasures (“Mother, is that _Elven_ gold?”) she smiles and runs her fingers through his unruly curls softly.  “You will have such mementos for yourself,” she assures him, “when you go on your own adventure.”

_Not all roads lead to the same sad end.  Leaving home is easy, finding your way back is the hard part._

More years pass, and one spring morning on the cusp of manhood, Bilbo stops believing.  He no longer listens eagerly at her knee and no longer feels the thrum of adventure running fierce through his veins.  Adventures are for story books, he convinces himself, not for respectable Shire-folk.  He will be a man soon, one day shy of his coming of age celebrations, and will have no time for such fickle yearnings.  On the morning of his birthday, his mother gives him a gift—the wooden box filled with all her prized trinkets and baubles.  He accepts it with a gracious smile, even though he can’t imagine having any use for it (because he is a Baggins of Bag End and adventures don’t happen to simple folk like him, no matter what she lead him to believe). 

She smiles, pleased with herself and kisses his cheek.  “One day, you’ll see mountains,” she promises.  “Ah, perhaps you’ll even rule them!”  Bilbo smiles but doesn’t agree.  Later that night, when all the songs are sung and the wine kegs empty, he looks inside the box one more time.  This time, there is no joy and there is no wonder.

_You don’t know it now, but you’ll know the way when the time is right.  Fearful as it may be, turning back isn’t an option.  We Tooks aren’t in the business of turning back._

Father dies first, then mother.  He does not realize how terribly he missed her stories until the day she is no longer there to tell them.  Bilbo’s life goes on, quiet, simple and peaceful.

Until, of course, the day it isn’t.

Thirteen hungry, filthy, maniacal dwarrows fill the halls of Bag End with riotous laughter (except for the one who doesn’t laugh and stares moodily into the distance but smells like fresh tilled earth and early rain) and bottomless pits for stomachs.  Long has it been since he’s seen Gandalf and, yes, while he certainly missed the old man, there was just a small matter on the company he chose.  He hears them out, lets them plead their case and then lets Gandalf plead it for them, to no avail. 

He is a Baggins! Of Bag End! And simple folk like him aren’t built for adventure (no matter what she led you to believe).  If his mind wasn’t already made up, one look at the ‘contract’ would have been more than enough to ensure that.  He ignores the disappointed stares and even a low sniffle or two from the smallest one (Ori, is it?) and excuses himself for bed.

Only he doesn’t sleep and merely pretends to until he hears the singing.  Thorin’s voice is rich and deep and Bilbo can hear the sorrow even in his song.

The next morning they are gone and Bilbo tries to be glad for it.  There is no trace that thirteen dwarrows even inhabited Bag End, save for the rolled up contract sitting on his dining table.

 

*

 

He remembers his mother’s box, he remembers her stories and he remembers her promise.  He remembers the roads that are there but only few can find; dark paths and hidden trails that he knows of.  He remembers the brief burn of hope blazing in Thorin’s eyes and the excitement of two dwarrow princes just coming into manhood.  But most of all, he remembers a scent; fresh tilled earth and early rain.

 

*

 

He signs the damned contract.

 

*

 

_(Not all roads lead home.)_

 

“Change your mind, burglar?”

_(But you’ll find the one that does.)_

 

“Yes.  I suppose I have.”

 

*

 

_Here is one you might call king._

_Here is a king you might come to love._


End file.
